#pfgala

Salem stared at the dance floor from the secluded balcony area she had discovered. The agents, for the most part, seemed to be enjoying themselves quite nicely. As well they should have, really, considering that this was their first true 'break' in quite some time. She sighed, completely helpless in feeling alone, tucked in a corner all by herself.

Her dress, decidedly black in remembrance for the fallen Freelancers, blended in with the shadows created by the curtains of the private area. There was something cathartic in watching her fellow agents in the spotlight of the gala's opulence. Happiness seemed such a foreign concept for Salem now, a boundary she couldn't push against, a distance she couldn't travel. The walls were up now, and, despite the beauty and reprieve of the city they all now found themselves in, only an act of God to knock the walls down.

She wiped a few tears away as she turned away from the scene, her mind turning to thoughts of happier times with Boston, wishing that it was him with her instead of her with her own loneliness. The sound of the curtains rustling brought her from her memories, and her hands went to rid her face of any evidence of tears. Too many had been shed recently, and this occasion was meant to be a happy time - not her own private pity party.

Too many drinks often led to loose lips and things that were, more often than note, better left unsaid. Were Charlie sober, he likely would have recognized the fact and heartily agreed to it, knowing as much as anyone the benefits of clear, deliberate communication. That was assuming he was sober, though, and as any of the unfortunate Freelancers at the gala might have noticed, the young cryptologist was anything but. Flitting between Freelancers and flutes of champagne unsteadily and at an alarming rate, Charlie had grown very drunk very quickly.

The thing was, though, that no one really wanted to talk, or at least talk about the things Charlie wanted to talk about. There was petty small talk - who had the best dress (or the worst), how the food was, or what they did on shore leave. It wasn't that Charlie couldn't participate in such conversations, it was that he didn't want to - he wanted to talk about how fucking weird it was they were having a party mere hours after their friends were being put to rest, how almost wrong it was that the A.I. "buried" had had to be done so under false pretenses, and how screwed up it was that he felt something, no matter how weird, for the poor A.I. Even Scorpio hadn't deserved what he had gotten - no one did, not a single one.

[She's smoking a cigarette and watching everyone, observing before she gets stuck into the mess of things. It's almost overwhelming to see so many people, she's trying to pick up which of them are Freelancers and which of them are just soldiers. It's as if she might discover who is who just by the way they move.]

I just can't stop thinking about them

Charleston didn't particularly like champagne much, if at all. It was weird, oddly tasteless while still being bitter and dry on his tongue. Even Boston's whiskey had been easier to down, at least in Charleston's opinion. At least you didn't have to drink dozens of shots of whiskey to get yourself drunk, unlike what it seemed to be taking with the champagne. The young agent looked down at the skinny glass in his hand. This was his fourth - no, fifth..

He hadn't meant to keep drinking at first, simply trying to fit in with the others who seemed to be at ease drinking. Even if he had hated Boston's whiskey as well, at least it had done the trick quicker than this. Still, with enough cocktail meatballs in his system, the champagne seemed to go down easier, and after the first two, it didn't even seem to taste that bad anymore. Charleston enjoyed the feeling of light-headedness that it gave him, and although he lingered on the edges of the party, he still didn't mind.

Of course, with no talking, there was nothing to fill the thoughts that flitted across his mind like bullets, each after the other. He was sad; he was happy. He was in a room with all of his friends, some who he even considered family, but the only thing that brought them together like this in the first place was that five of their own had died horrible, horrible deaths. Three weren't even getting properly recognized. Charleston was, for the first time in his life, considering the fact that he might have deep feelings for someone, yet the line they toed seemed unsteady as it was and grew narrower every passing day. He finally had a family, but they could be ripped from him at anytime.

Charleston himself could be as good as gone next mission. Sometimes it didn't matter how good you were.

And that was how he found himself stumbling towards the edge of the room, trying to make his way towards the hallway. The alcohol had long since went to his head, and his steps were unsteady and inconsistent. Dammit, he hoped Providence didn't notice, although if she were anywhere in the vicinity, he knew she would zero in immediately. Better to continue his course to the hallway and hope no one noticed.

Of course, the logic of the heavily tipsy and drunk often proved faulty, and Charleston had a harder time navigating than anticipated. As he made his way slowly but surely, he collided with a waiter, sending them flying one way and himself in the other as he tried to compensate for his mistake.